Drowning Instinct (10 page)

Loose pens and pencils.

A roll of Life Savers (cherry).

A double-handful of loose change in a small Pyrex dish.

A small digital camera.

A hand-bound leather journal with a tie strap wrapped around a brass button shaped like a flower.

And under the journall. . .

A knife.

Don’t do it
! My brain really did scream that, but I was already reaching in that same, dreamy way that I‘d run my fingers over David‘s scar.
Don’t touch it; don’t, don’t!

Yeah. Like I listen so well.

So, Bobby-o, you into knives? I‘ll bet some cops are. I know I am.
Duh
. Well, let me tell you about this one.

This knife was beautiful in the same way that Mr. Anderson was. That knife felt so good, so balanced. A perfect knife.

Inset in the staghorn handle was a tiny brass shield with two birds and the words,
Kissing Crane
. I slid my thumbnail into the nail nick and unfolded the blade, which locked into place with a tiny
click
. It wasn‘t your usual Swiss Army knife but more of a stiletto, a little like David‘s saber, only this was three bright inches of shining, very sharp carbon steel....

―Mr. Anderson?‖ A boy‘s voice, coming from the classroom.

My heart did a quick double-thump. Oh, shit,
shit . . .

―Mr. Anderson?‖ The boy‘s voice came again, closer now because he was walking through the classroom for the back office. ―Mr.... Oh, hey, Jenna. Uh, what are you doing?‖

―Me?‖ I was back at the computer, industriously typing. ―Just, you know, TA stuff.‖

―Oh.‖ David looked surprised. His hair was rumpled, like he‘d just rolled out of bed and I thought I recognized the same shirt from the day before. ―Yeah, okay, that‘s cool. I figured Mr. Anderson would get someone else, but I thought he was going to ask—‖

―David?‖ Another voice that I recognized and I thought:
oh, how perfect
.

―David, is he . . .‖ One good look and Danielle‘s eyes first popped, then slitted like a cat‘s. Her lips peeled back from her teeth. ―What are
you
doing here?‖ she snarled.

―Uh,‖ I said. ―Mr. Anderson asked me to be his new TA and—‖

―What? No, you‘re not.
I
was supposed to be Mr. Anderson‘s assistant, not
you
.‖

―Hey, take it easy.‖ David put a hand on Danielle‘s arm, which she shrugged off.

―There‘s more than enough work for two people,‖ he said.

―Wanna bet?
She
gets here early
and
stays late and . . .‖

―And what, Danielle?‖ Mr. Anderson was suddenly there, with a napkin-covered cafeteria plate and a smell of fried potatoes.

―What‘s
she
doing here?‖ Danielle demanded. ―
David’s
your TA and
I
—‖

―Danielle, calm down.‖ Mr. Anderson set the plate on his desk. ―As I recall, this is my office. Don‘t you think you have enough going on?‖

―What‘s that got to do with—‖ Her lips trembled. She looked to David who avoided her eyes, and then back at Mr. Anderson. She screwed her fists onto her hips. ―I asked
first
.‖

―You really want to do this now, Danielle?‖ Mr. Anderson asked mildly. He crossed his arms over his chest. ―Jenna‘s here earlier and on a consistent basis and, as you pointed out, she stays later. You‘ve got cross-country, schoolwork, band and . . . other things.‖

Her face changed, and that‘s when I really noticed, for the first time, these deeply purple smudges under her eyes, like she wasn‘t getting much sleep. Come to think of it, she looked as rough as David—and weren‘t those yesterday‘s jeans? ―That‘s not fair. Don‘t I get a say?‖

―No. This isn‘t a democracy, Danielle. This is my decision.‖

I didn‘t need to hear this. There was way more going on here than I knew. ―I should get going.‖ Without waiting for permission, I gathered up my things and made a beeline out of there.

Mr. Anderson caught up with me at the classroom door. The halls were filling with other kids. ―She‘s upset,‖ he said, and then sighed. ―I wasn‘t thinking; I should have told her first.‖

I didn‘t think I was going to say anything, but I surprised myself. ―Why didn‘t you pick her?‖

―Honestly?‖ Mr. Anderson looked me in the eye. ―Because she thinks that keeping herself distracted will make everything else just go away.‖

I didn‘t know what any of that meant, so I said nothing.

―Here.‖ Mr. Anderson handed me the covered plate. ―You need to eat. Don‘t worry about Danielle. See you after school, okay?‖

―Oh, sure,‖ I said.

In the girls‘ bathroom, I peeked under the napkin: scrambled eggs, hash browns, a carton of orange juice.

He‘d bought breakfast for me. A sweet and thoughtful gesture. Something Matt would‘ve done.

I dumped the food in the trash.

After school, I went straight to the library. I kept expecting Mr. Anderson to come find me, but he didn‘t. Or maybe he did, but I‘d made sure not to sit in my usual spot. More than likely, though, he‘d gotten the message when I hadn‘t stayed after class. Because I couldn‘t see outside, I don‘t know if he went running or biking or coaching cross-country, or kept busy sticking Danielle together with superglue. I didn‘t want to know. It was none of my business. Live with a psychotic father long enough, watch enough psych techs do enough takedowns while nurses come scuttling down the halls with syringes and needles out to
here
. You get a pretty good idea of when someone‘s
this
close to the edge, and Danielle was right there. Her kind of trouble I just didn‘t need.

Mom came on time. Oh. Yay. When we left, Mr. Anderson‘s truck was still in the lot. I didn‘t look up at his windows. If my brain had been a hard drive, I would‘ve hit , or crashed it, or whatever.

―So?‖ Mom chirped. ―How did your teacher like the book?‖

―He liked it,‖ I lied. ―He said to thank you.‖

―He seems like
such
a wonderful man,‖ Mom gushed. ―I envy his wife. I like the way he‘s taking an interest in you. You need someone like him.‖

―Uh-huh.‖ I did a quick mental calculation: only seven hundred and eighty days left until graduation.

Seven hundred and eighty days of Mr. Anderson: in class, in the halls, at lunch . . .

Bursting from the woods in a blaze of early morning sun.

Lucky me.

17: a

Dad was home for once, having pawned his on-call off to Dr. Kirby, his partner. We had a civil meal and no one screamed. After dinner, Dad retreated to his study to do dictations. Mom asked me to do the dishes because she had to work, and then she sat down with a pot of jasmine tea and her spreadsheets. While I was scraping dishes, I noticed the empty Stoli bottle in the trash.

Staring at that Stoli was when I started feeling bad. What was I
doing
? Mr.

Anderson really had put himself out for me. He did that for everybody, as far as I could tell.

Look at the slack he cut Danielle. And how many teachers would not only drive a kid home but bring her breakfast? Convince her mom to lighten up, act more responsibly? My mom had dumped that vodka because of Mr. Anderson. She‘d been on time because of Mr.

Anderson, and I knew she and Dad must‘ve talked last night because they were behaving—because of Mr. Anderson. My family was semi-normal, for that night at least, and I owed all that to Mr. Anderson, and here I‘d treated him like he had the plague.

I thought about him, all alone in his house. He probably was standing over the sink, eating a yogurt or something. Or maybe not eating anything. His house would be clean and smell like lemons or, maybe, roses but there would be silence when he walked in. So he would put on music because the silence was a blanket that could suffocate a man if he didn‘t kick it off. What would he pick? Something soft and soothing. Not Bach. Bach was for the morning; Bach was marching orders and mathematics and setting the world just so.

Not Mozart either (too happy). I couldn‘t think of any other composers except Wagner and Beethoven. Jazz, then, or blues. But there would be music because that was the kind of man Mr. Anderson was. If there was silence, it would be because he‘d chosen that, not had it forced on him.

Then I wondered. Maybe he took care of other people because no one was taking care of him. His wife was away. He must be lonely. Maybe he gathered, well,
strays
to feel better.

After the dishes, I told Mom I was going upstairs to do some work and then get ready for bed. She kissed my cheek. Her lips were warm from the tea, and she smelled like a flower.

I knew which floorboards squeaked, and I‘d read somewhere that the squeakiest place on steps or in any hallway is right in the middle because that‘s where everyone walks.

I walked normally to my room, flipped on the light, closed the door from the outside. Then I tiptoed out, hugging the wall all the way to the spare room.

The hinges cried but so softly only I heard. Matt had never lived in this house, so there was nothing of his here at all: not his trundle bed or baseball glove or football helmet or books. Still, if Matt were to come back, somehow, this is where he would sleep. I quietly pulled the door shut, heard the slight tick of the catch, and stood a moment. I knew the layout well: bed to the left, a bureau straight on, a desk against the right wall between two windows—and a telephone.

Mr. Anderson said he lived twenty miles west and south, give or take, and I thought I remembered the town from when he‘d pointed out his exit the night before. The operator found him right away—―On J?‖ A county road; that‘s the thing about Wisconsin, a bunch of roads don‘t have names but numbers and letters because they‘re all just threading through farmland. I said yes and then no, thanks, I‘d dial it myself. When I did, I made sure to block caller ID, just in case . . . Well, just in case.

I listened as the numbers bleeped and blooped, and then the phone rang. Once, twice, three times . . . On the fifth ring, someone picked up. ―Hello?‖

A woman‘s voice. Or a girl? Someone young but not younger than me. Everything I‘d been about to say—what
had
that been anyway?—turned to dust on my tongue.

―Hello?‖ She sounded tired and a little mad and about to get madder. In the space behind her pause, I heard music: disjointed notes from a piano whose melodic line I couldn‘t follow because then she was back, angrier now: ―Hello? Is there anyone there?‖

Then: ―Is that
you
?‖

Another voice, in the background but getting closer. Male, asking who was on the phone . . . Was that Mr. Anderson?

―I don‘t know.‖ Her voice was muffled, like she‘d put her hand over the receiver. ―I thought it . . . him . . . no ID . . .‖

The other person said something else and she said: ―. . . know what he ... doesn‘t know ... here.‖

―Hang up.‖ I heard that pretty distinctly. ―He told us not ...‖

Click.

After a few moments, a recording snapped on and helpfully suggested I hang up.

I did.

Okay.

His wife, probably.

Unless it wasn‘t.

Mrs. Anderson was in Minnesota, he‘d said. And had that been Mr. Anderson‘s voice? Well, how would I know?

Whatever.

Mr. Anderson had a life.

He sure as hell didn‘t need me in it.

That night, I read one of Matt‘s e-mails. He‘d had a bad day. His convoy had taken sniper fire, and he‘d had to do building sweeps, which he‘s said can get you killed just as fast as an IED. He managed to take out two snipers, but the third shot his partner and got away. The story was depressingly familiar, one I‘d read before. This time, though, I had trouble forming a reply because I really, really wanted to talk to someone real and not just electrons thrown halfway around the world. But I also knew that the kind of questions I had Matt just couldn‘t answer.

In the end, I sent nothing back. For the first time in forever, I didn‘t have the energy to make up a nice story, and that made me feel worse. Just because Matt was gone didn‘t mean he didn‘t need me.

Before bed, I went into my bathroom, closed the door. I turned on the shower and, as the water heated up, peeled out of my clothes. The right front pocket of my jeans was heavy, which was weird—until I remembered why.

I didn‘t recall slipping the knife into my pocket, but I‘d found it at lunch, while I hid in a bathroom stall. I wondered if Mr. Anderson noticed the knife was gone. If he had, did he suspect me? He‘d been all business during class, and then I‘d gone to the library. So either he knew and didn‘t care, or he didn‘t know. Whatever. I would have to figure out a way to slip it back into his desk.

Mr. Anderson‘s knife—the
Kissing Crane
stiletto—was warm from my body heat. I studied the blade as the shower thrummed and steam fogged the mirror, which was a good thing. I didn‘t like looking at myself—you know, my face or anything—and forget the donor sites on my thighs. I never got the urge to inspect my back. (Doctors, though, they love that kind of stuff:
oh, that’s scarring very well.
) You know, Bob, there‘s this movie,
Secretary
, that got part of it right—for me, anyway. The girl‘s a cutter. The guy she falls in love with is kind of creepy-kinky, and it becomes this whole big sex thing; her suffering proves how much she loves him; blah, blah, blah . . . that kind of stuff. To the guy, her scars are part of her beauty. He bathes her, washes her hair, kisses every inch of skin, tastes every wound.

And now, here was Mr. Anderson‘s kissing knife. I liked the heft, the weight. How solid it was, like a promise. For a while that morning—before Danielle—I‘d felt safe in Mr.

Anderson‘s back room. Last night, he‘d taken care of me.

I eyed the bathroom door.

I could. It would be so simple. A quick flick of the wrist. A little pressure. I could do it.

So I did. For the first time in months, Bob . . . I locked the door.

18: a

The knob was cool and moist with condensation. The lock engaged with a tiny
snick
.

My heart was pounding. Still clutching the knife, I drew aside the curtain and slipped under the shower. Water drummed over my face and neck, sheeted over my chest, and swam down my stomach and along my thighs. The shower was already warm, but I inched the knob over, felt the sudden surge of heat. I kept going, letting the heat build, gasping as the hot water needled my breasts. The sound—a rushing, gathering roar—was nearly identical to the bellow of that fire so long ago and yet always with me. There was heat and steam and pain raining down—and Bob?

It wasn‘t all...
bad
.

Because there was the knife.
His
knife. I pulled out the blade, felt it lock into place.

This was the knife, the knife, his kissing knife....

The staghorn was rough, but the stiletto was smooth, bright steel that was first cool and then began to warm. I ran the ball of my left thumb along the edge . . .
careful, be
carefull...
and felt how keen that blade was.

Careful
.

Then I drew that tip, sharp as a pick, over the swell of my left breast, tracing myself

. . . carefully. Slowly. Like drawing myself into being, if that makes any sense. I gasped at the feel of the knife against my tingling skin because it . . .

It was...

It was what I wanted. Not blood, not from the kissing knife, no shriek, not that kind of pain. I walked along that knife‘s edge in the heat as my blood thundered in my ears and—

―Jenna?‖

I flinched.

The kissing knife slipped.

There was a sudden, bright, white lance of pain, and I stared, horrified, as a red rosette bloomed, the blood welling from where the kissing knife had nicked the skin just to the right of my heart.

―Jenna!‖ My mother knocked on the door. The knob rattled. ―Why is this door locked?‖

―I... Mom, I‘m...I‘m in the
shower
!‖ I managed through a sudden flutter of panic.

Shit, shit! I forced my shaking fingers to explore the cut then breathed out a tiny sigh of relief. The slice wasn‘t deep, just the tiniest of nicks made by the stiletto‘s razor-sharp point and barely there. An accident, it had just been an accident; I‘d slipped; I hadn‘t meant to really
hurt ...

―Jenna, open the door this instant!‖

―No!‖ I watched as the water splashing over my breast pinked then paled. The bleeding was stopping already. God, that was a close call. What had I been thinking? This was
crazy
. There was no such thing as
good
pain. Was there? No,
no
! That was a movie; the mousy little secretary got her guy, but this was real life. Besides, there
was
no guy. ―I‘m in the
shower
.‖

Mom went on about how this wasn‘t part of the bargain, but I kept shouting back that I was in the shower and what did she say, what,
what?
By the time she huffed off, the bleeding had stopped completely. I knew this wasn‘t the end of it, of course. Once I was out, Mom would march me into her bathroom for a strip inspection because the light was even better there.

But she would miss it. For one thing, I always cut my stomach, my hips. For another, the slice was so clean, so neat, the lips entirely bloodless, there was no way she‘d spot it.

By the time I unlocked the door, the kissing knife was hidden, too: snugged right next to that pair of nail scissors behind my vanity.

Knowing the kissing knife was there? That I got away with it? That I could get at that knife—hold it, carry it, touch it whenever I wanted?

That I had a real piece of a memory—of Mr. Anderson caring about me, of a safe place—that wasn‘t
all
bad?

It was good, Bob.

It felt good.

Because it was mine, Bob. It was
mine
.

19: a

On the Wednesday before Mom‘s big party, Dewerman corralled me after class.

―Congratulations. Since you‘re the only student who hasn‘t chosen someone for a project, it‘s my pleasure to name you the lucky winner of Procrastinators Anonymous. First prize is one week in New Jersey and‖—he presented a note card with an elaborate flourish—―the only person no one else wanted. Be grateful. Second prize was two weeks in New Jersey.‖

I scanned the card. ―Alexis Depardieu? Like . . . the actor?‖

―No relation.
This
Depardieu was the Rachel Carson of marine mammology. She studied whales and dolphins, mainly, and wrote one book,
Ladyfish
, published posthumously the year after she died.‖

―Uhm . . .‖ As I remembered it, we‘d had to choose from people who‘d written novels or poetry or plays. Maybe that was why no one had chosen Depardieu. ―So why is she on the list? How did she kill herself?‖

Dewerman showed a thin smile. ―She didn‘t. Her ship collided with a whaling vessel off the coast of Japan in November 2000.‖

―An accident?‖

―That‘s one way of looking at it. Clearly, if she‘s on the list, maybe I have questions, right? So, go.‖ He made shooing motions. ―Learn. You‘ve got all next week to work on a proposal while we‘re on fall break. Now, git.‖

I gitted. As I went out the door, I saw Mr. Anderson coming down the hall to my right, so I peeled off to the left. When I looked back, Dewerman was gesturing with his mammoth coffee mug and Mr. Anderson‘s hands were in his pockets. Neither man looked my way. That was fine.